When my necromancy normalises-- she vaguely remembers the twinkly-eyed lunatic who'd greeted her saying something about a temporary lack of access to special abilities, thinks she'd heard a muttered conversation of that nature going on in the cafeteria. She hadn't paid any particular attention at the time, given that during the first she'd been too disorientated to really know what was going on, and during the second had been too busy stuffing her face. But now something clicks, like a rusty bolt sliding home, and she thinks of how - not too long ago - this would have been the opportunity that dreams are made of. Harrowhark Nonagesimus, the Reverend Daughter, de-boned. She could kick her ass from one side of this shitty library to the other and there'd be nothing Harrow could do to stop her.

Okay, so the present Gideon has no interest in doing any such thing, but she's not so far gone that she doesn't struggle to suppress a smirk at the thought of it.

Focus, though. What Harrow is saying-- it's important. Not just the short, bright shock of surprise at the implications of her last statement. That too - so strange and unaccustomed to get a near-compliment from Harrow of all people - but it's I am a Lyctor, after all that has something warming in her, a bittersweet relief at knowing that what she'd done, it had mattered.

"So it worked, then," she says, and sounds - for a moment - unlike herself. No bravado. No dumb jokes. Just honest to god gladness.